


Solution of the Final Problem

by agirlsname



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bi!Molly, F/F, First Kiss, Fix-It, Humor, M/M, POV Molly, Read this if you hate tfp as much as i do, Sherlock's Birthday, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, at the cake place, laughing is the best way to cope, post-tld, tfp parody
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:12:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/pseuds/agirlsname
Summary: Sherlock would be on the side of TJLC. He would hate what Mofftiss did in TFP, he would laugh at them and he would deduce the crap out of them. So I let him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I was sad and I was furious. I wanted to take Sherlock back and have him drag Mofftiss as hard as he ever could. I started out by freeing Molly from her patriarchal fate, and then I gathered my favourite plot holes from TFP and smashed this little story together. Turns out laughing really is the best way to cope - and I hope I can bring some of it to my lovely readers as well! Sherlock is ours, you know. We get to decide what is real and what is not, and The Fucky Problem most definitely is not.
> 
> A big thank you to [shreylock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shreylock) for the deductions, for keeping me company and for being a great friend!
> 
> And of course to [thinkhappythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkhappythoughts), for being a remarkably reliable sister, for loving the scenes I don't and helping me figure them out, and for always holding my hand through my writing not only with patience but with enthusiasm. Check out her amazing cover for this fic!
> 
> My beta hasn't looked this one over, and English isn't my first language. But I figure for this kind of story, it's enough.

Molly sits on the small and surprisingly comfortable chair, looking out the big windows. The name of the café is written backwards on it in sweeping, slightly worn off letters. The furniture is old-fashioned and every corner of the small room tells stories about decades of guests wearing at these spaces. Perhaps a major cleaning wouldn't hurt. But still, the cakes and pastries behind the counter glass look exceptionally delicious. If the couple owning this place puts their efforts into the baking rather than the cleaning, Molly will not complain. She's not squeamish like that.

She sees them when they turn the corner. Baker Street is not far from here, so they apparently decided to walk. Molly smiles subconsciously at the familiar sight of them; Sherlock's dramatic coat swishing at every step, John's steady walking pace with his arms stiffly swinging. It's nice to see them walk side by side again.

“Can I take your order, miss?” The sweet old woman is standing next to her table with a note pad in her hand.

“Oh, would you just give me a moment? My friends will be here in a minute.”

“Of course.” The café owner smiles and strolls back to the counter. She seems as if she is in no hurry even though the place is rather full; Molly was lucky to get an empty table. The woman gets behind the counter to quietly get to work beside the other lady standing there. Molly watches them for a few seconds; the complete harmony in which they work. That kind of harmony only appears if you have moved around the same body for decades, and it has become as entrenched in your world as the furniture around you, only much, much more loved. Maybe, Molly ponders, it's the warmth between this old couple that sets the atmosphere in here. Even though it's full it does not feel crowded, the conversations around her are a mere buzzing. Feels cosy, somehow.

When she turns her head back to the window she momentarily locks eyes with a woman her age sitting in the corner. Her blonde hair is delicately braided around her head, her eyebrows dark, and she holds her head high. She is in company with an older man, two cups of tea on the round table in front of them. Her dark eyes have a faint smile in them as she looks at Molly, who quickly turns her gaze away. Molly breathes in once and looks back, before she can rethink it, with a little smile of her own. The girl is still watching her, now returning Molly's smile with an even bigger one. Just a few moments, then she looks back at the man at her table.

A mixture of nervousness and happiness stirs in the lower parts of Molly's stomach. She's still not quite used to this, almost forgets she can let her eye get caught not only by men, and that it is okay to be mesmerized by beauty when it's presented to her.

The bell by the door tingles modestly behind her, and she turns in her chair as Sherlock and John enter, pulling a whiff of cold fresh air with them. They don't see her immediately, so she gets a moment to watch them undisturbed. Sherlock still looks dreadful; the mark at the eyebrow is still more a wound than a scar, his left eye is red from the strangling, and his uncharacteristic stubble makes him look like a stranger. He is wearing the ridiculous deerstalker; it's flattening his curls in a most unflattering way. Why would he voluntarily wear that thing? Molly is grateful that he at least wears the coat; it adds some familiarity to him, some comfort.

John looks sad, but not in the same way he has ever since Mary died. Molly frowns slightly. There's something different. Not just in John's face, the way it somehow looks content in the middle of all the sadness, but also in the way they move around each other. They have always looked entirely comfortable beside one another, but this is something else; when Sherlock holds the door up for John, neither of them seem to even notice the light hand Sherlock places on the small of John's back as he passes through. John says something to Sherlock, briefly touches his forearm and then works his way towards the counter. Sherlock scans the café, sees Molly and comes to her table.

Molly rises from her chair as he approaches. “Happy birthday”, she says, drawing him into a quick hug.

“Thank you”, he vibrates against her, placing one of his hands between her shoulder blades for a fleeting moment.

Her stomach does that old, tired thing, because it's so used to, because it thinks that's the default way to react to his voice. Not painful any more, though, just an old scar being touched in the wrong way. _You loved him once_ , it reminds her.

 _Yes I did_ , she answers calmly. _Once._

She lets go of him and the feeling is gone. She smiles at him when she sits back down.

“So John finally worked it out”, she says.

“What?” Sherlock undoes the buttons of his coat and sits down.

“When your birthday is. You really should have let us know before.”

“Should I really?” he says while taking off his scarf in one quick motion. “Why?”

“Because we're your friends. We want to celebrate you.”

She expects him to start ranting about the silliness of birthdays ( _Celebrate me, that doesn't even mean anything_ ), but he doesn't. He just lets his eyes travel to John's back as he makes the order from one of the ladies.

“That's very kind of you”, he says absently.

Molly follows his gaze. John is standing with one hand on the counter, leaning against it, as he chit chats with the owner. He makes her laugh as she cuts out pieces of a very fluffy looking pastry for him.

“So things are all better then”, Molly says. “With John?”

Sherlock turns his eyes towards her without moving his head. He looks at her without expression. She gives him an encouraging smile, used to these awkward stares of his. His brain is working hard, she can tell, but he doesn't want his face to give anything away, so she just waits in case he decides to talk to her about it. To her mild surprise, he does.

“He told me he wanted more.”

Molly straightens her back a little. “What do you mean?”

“That he wanted more than what he had with Mary. That he still does.”

He's not really talking to her, she realises at this point. Still, she understands enough to know something vital has happened. They have talked. Finally, she adds in her mind. About time John acknowledged this; anyone could see that John wasn't happy with Mary, not as happy as Molly knew he could be. She had seen him that happy before, a lot of times, and John just made a fool of himself by not seeing it too.

She draws a breath, but before she can say anything Sherlock says:

“The woman with the blonde braid, is she still looking at you?”

Molly's eyes flicker to the table in the corner and she blushes slightly. How did Sherlock manage to pick that up?

“Yes”, she admits.

“She's born the same year as you”, Sherlock says in his dry deduction voice. “Works as a landscape architect – she enjoys planting things, in fact her apartment is filled with plants and also one cat, grey. She spends quite some time creating origami creatures to decorate her flat further, or use them to create earrings like the one she's wearing right now. She's single, has been for a couple of years. Should be a good fit.”

Molly stares at him, not knowing what to say. It never stops unsettling her how fast he is; right now he has his back to this girl.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks in a silly attempt to play dumb.

“Apparently, romantic entanglement would complete you as a human being”, Sherlock answers with a surprising lack of sarcasm. “Oh, and she's known she's a lesbian for years”, he adds. “She's quite comfortable with this fact. So is her father, sitting across her. Shouldn't be any drama there.”

Before Molly can think of an answer, John comes to the table carrying a tray. One of the cakes has a candle on it, and he carefully places it in front of Sherlock. “For you”, he says.

The look Sherlock gives him as he sits down and hands Molly her piece, is enough to break anyone's heart. They are so close, she thinks in awe. Their love is so near under the surface it's practically touchable. What was John doing, inviting her as a fifth wheel on this date? Why didn't he just… get the hell on with it? He didn't actually still believe that sociopath crap, now did he?

Sherlock blows his one candle, earning applauds from Molly and John which he receives with a condescending glare. The cake is even more delicious than it looked, somehow giving Molly the courage to shoot another smile at the landscape architect. Eventually the father leaves, but the girl gets refills and puts a laptop on the table.

Meanwhile the conversation at Molly's table is easy, to her great relief. She was a bit worried about awkwardness when John called and told her to meet them here, since everything the two of them have been through recently. But all the tension is gone. Suddenly she's dying to know what has happened, and when Sherlock leaves for the bathroom she gets an opportunity to ask John.

“You both look so much better. Did you finally talk it out?”

John sighs, but not in pain, only like someone who is exhausted and emotionally drained. “Yeah, I suppose you could call it that. It's a beginning, anyway. I think it'll be fine. Eventually, I mean.”

“You're best friends”, Molly says. “I don't think you'd be able to stay away from each other, to be honest.”

“Maybe”, John says with a faint smile. He takes a sip from his tea. “I think maybe I've been trying too hard. To be this perfect man you know, to push my demons away. That doesn't make them go away though. Only makes them bigger. You can't just go your whole life pretending to be someone you're not, and pretend you want things that in fact don't make you happy.”

She looks at him in silence. He's ready, she thinks to herself. If he can admit these things to himself, he's ready.

“I don't ever want to see him this destroyed again”, John continues after a pause. “I want him to be happy. I told him to go to the Woman, I want him to…”

“The woman?” Molly interrupts, frowning.

“Irene Adler. She's alive, apparently.” John tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice but fails spectacularly. “So I told him that he needs romance in his life, because he does, even if he believes he's a sociopath…”

“You know he doesn't actually believe that”, Molly says. “You're the only one who still believes it.”

“No, I know I was wrong.” John pauses and looks down at his cup of tea. “He hugged me. I was… he hugged me, and I would have thought he'd be totally awkward about it, you know, not know how to even use his arms that way, but. He hugged me. It was quite nice.”

So that's it. Molly makes a little sigh and sits back in her chair. “John, are you telling me this is what happened”, she says, and John lifts his eyes to her again: “You told Sherlock that he needs some romance in his life, and he hugged you?”

“Yeah, I was… crying.” John drops his eyes again when admitting this. “He was trying to comfort me.”

Molly tries not to smile, knowing her smile would be a mocking one at this point. “So what was it like?”

“Like I said. Nice. His… his hand was on my neck. It was quite lovely. Who would have thought, right? He knew exactly what to do.” John is also fighting to conceal a smile at the memory of this.

“Okay, so he got up and held you and stroked your neck? That's what he did with your romance advice?”

John's head snaps back up. “No, no that's not what I'm saying. He… he's in love with Irene!”

“A woman?” Molly looks at him in disbelief. “John, you know him better than anyone. Are you telling me you honestly haven't worked it out?”

“What?”

Molly lets a small laugh slip, shaking her head. “You're even slower than I am.”

“How so?” Sherlock's deep voice comes from behind her. He raises his eyebrows at her as he sits down.

“John thinks you're straight”, Molly says with a small, amused smile.

“I know he does”, Sherlock says with a barely noticeable sigh, looking back at her in shared amusement.

John looks back and forth between the two of them, his forehead creased. Molly has to fight the urge to laugh. Well, love blinds you, she knows that pretty well herself.

And-

Part two! Part two is more action-based. Because at that moment, the ceiling breaks and a man lands right at the top of their table. He's dressed in a white, wide night gown, his pale legs are hairy and his feet bare. The wig on his head is feminine; it's long, curly and dark, and he has a bit of awkward make-up around the eyes. There are an enormous pair of ugly spectacles with thick, black frames sitting on his nose, a strange match to the rest of his outfit.

He spins around until he is face to face with John, puts his hands on John's shoulders and pushes him violently backwards. The chair tips and John is on his back on the floor with the man on top of him, his underarm pressed against John's throat.

Sherlock is already out of his chair. He grabs the fabric of the night gown and rips the man off John. The man stumbles to his feet, faces Sherlock and shifts in a very obvious way; Molly is sure every person in the café can see what he's about to do, and finds she is mostly amused to witness this. Sherlock graciously ducks away from the man's right fist, and quickly comes back with his own. From where she sits Molly can hear the impact on the man's nose very clearly. She bends down and picks up the spectacles from the floor. They're not real; it's just ordinary glass in them.

John has risen to his feet and pulls out his gun, ready to aim it at the stranger. But the man is now bent over, covering his nose with both hands and letting a whimper escape his throat. John exchanges a look with Sherlock over his head.

“Right… I won't be needing this, then?” John says, waving his gun in confusion.

Molly gets up from her chair, gets behind the stranger's back and takes his hands firmly away from his face. She puts the glasses back on his nose for lack of a better place to put them, and he whines in pain when she touches his nose. Her hands grip hard at his wrists behind his back, and he twists and turns to get away. “Seriously though”, she says, “can't you see the gun?”

“I'll go get some ribbons”, Sherlock says and saunters away towards the counter.

Molly looks around the café, finding every pair of eyes staring at them. She tries to smile reassuringly. _Don't mind us._

“Who the hell are you?” John asks the man, putting his gun away after a moment's hesitation.

“Isn't it obvious?” the man answers. “I'm Sherlock's secret sister.”

Molly meets John's eyes and tries not to laugh.

Sherlock is already back with his hands full of ribbons in a range of colours, probably meant to use when packing pastries in neat little boxes. Molly grips harder at the stranger's wrists as Sherlock starts using the ribbons to tie them together.

“The owners offered to harbour us in the kitchen while we sort this out”, he says, and Molly starts to push the man towards the door in the back. “No need to disturb the café guests longer than necessary.” Sherlock looks up at their audience. “Enjoy your tea”, he says before they get in through the kitchen door, held open by one of the ladies.

The room is chilly and it smells incredible from newly baked cakes and coffee. Every surface is covered with what looks like a creative baking chaos, but it could just as well be a very organized form of chaos that reappears in the exact same way every day. The café owner pulls a chair out of a corner, and Molly makes the man sit down on it.

“Thank you”, she says to the lady, “We're so sorry to bother you this way.”

“Oh, don't worry about it”, the old woman says. “Would you like me to call the police?”

“Oh _p_ _lease_ ”, Sherlock says. “We hardly need the police coming here being all messy and fussy just for this one.”

John clears his throat and smiles at the lady. “What he means is: no thank you, we can handle this ourselves.”

“Well then”, the lady smiles back, going to stand by the ovens. “Don't mind me.”

Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, hands behind his back, head held high, eyes glaring sideways at the wigged man. Molly keeps herself busy tying him to the chair with the ribbons. Might as well. The man, meanwhile, is staring back at Sherlock as if he is trying to win a staring contest. With Sherlock Holmes. This is going to be interesting, isn't it.

“So”, Sherlock says. “I have the slightest feeling that you want to bring those spectacles to my attention, but apparently I'm not clever enough to understand why.”

“Did you bring it?”, the man says.

“Bring what?”

“My hair band, did you bring it like I asked?”

Sherlock exhales impatiently. “You're boring me already. State your name and intent.”

“I'm Eurus”, the man tilts his head to the side, “do you really not remember me?”

“We have never met. If we had, it would have made a lasting impression, surely.” Sherlock doesn't try to hide the distaste in his voice.

“I'm your sister”, the man claims once more.

“Nope, don't have a sister.”

“That's what you think. But you have erased all your memories of me entirely. I'm the genius in the family – more clever than you, more clever than Mycroft. I'm so clever I can control people, I can make them do whatever I want.”

“Wow”, John says drily, “sounds like the X-Men.”

Sherlock fights a smile.

“Remember Redbeard, Sherlock?” the man continues, and Sherlock's smile disappears. “Yeah? You think he was a dog, but he was in fact your childhood friend. You were always playing pirates with him, and you wouldn't let me play along with you. You had him, but I had no one, so I drowned him in our well, and no one could figure out where he was, not even when I called him drowned Redbeard, and his bones are still in the well, and you couldn't handle it so you turned your memory of him into a dog to cope…”

The man trails off, clearly not getting the reaction he was hoping for. There is a surprised silence, then Sherlock and John glance at each other and start to chuckle despite themselves.

“I'm sorry”, Sherlock says, “that was such an interesting story. But really, was it the best you could do? Turning my memory of a child into a dog, erasing another child from my memory? You don't know me very well, do you, trying to fool me with this nonsense. Tell me who you really are.”

Molly is done with the ribbons, so she grabs the wig on the man's head and it comes off easily. The man makes a surprised sound and starts to blush. Molly goes to sit on the kitchen worktop between two bags of flour, studying him. He looks like the most ordinary man imaginable. She doesn't think she has seen him before, but if she had she probably wouldn't even know it, since he looks the same as every other middle-aged, white cis man. Apart from the sloppy make up and the ridiculous spectacles, that is. And at the moment he is bleeding from his nose, two red streaks trailing down from his nostrils.

The man glares back at her. “Molly Hooper”, he says with a mocking tone, “trying to be a woman of action.”

She rolls her eyes. “We were in the middle of a birthday celebration, could you just tell us why you attacked John so we can get back to it.”

John leans his back against the worktop next to her, his arms crossed over his chest. The man looks at Sherlock again, who is drumming his fingers against the back of his other hand.

“I'm Mofftiss”, he says as if this explains everything. “I can do whatever I want.”

“Wrong”, Sherlock says darkly. “You can not attack John Watson.”

The corner of John's mouth pulls up a bit.

In the silence that follows Molly hears the sound of a helicopter in the distance. She looks up at the big window in the ceiling, which lets the light flow into the kitchen properly. There is definitely a helicopter up there somewhere. When she turns her eyes back at Mofftiss he is smiling at her.

“You think you can capture me”, he says. “You think you can outsmart me. You think I didn't have a backup plan?”

Sherlock glances at the ceiling window. “You mean the fact that you removed the window glass beforehand? Quite obvious from the start. But again, not obvious why.”

Mofftiss' smile fades. “How did you…”

“I'm Sherlock Holmes”, he says impatiently, “do you think I wouldn't notice there aren't any reflections?”

“Oh I know you're clever”, Mofftiss says. “I'm a big fan of the great detective of London. But I'm clever too, you know. The spectacles? They're-”

“Actually, on second thought, I couldn't care less about the spectacles”, Sherlock tries to interrupt, but Mofftiss only keeps talking:

“-meant to show you we're family. I've been following you on your cases, and one time you were wearing a pair of fake glasses, and I heard you tell Doctor Watson that in your family you like to wear spectacles even though you don't need them.”

“That was a joke”, John says. “It was all for a case.”

There's another moment of silence, allowing them to hear the helicopter coming closer.

“So that's your manifestation of cleverness?” Sherlock says. “I suppose the glassless window goes along the same line of genius then. What are you planning to accomplish with that? Giving us chills?” He waves his hands in the air.

“Listen”, Mofftiss says. “I just want a chat with you, mate. I'm a big fan.”

“I'm not your _mate_ ”, Sherlock says in a disgusted voice.

“But don't you see that London needs you? Don't you see how unique you are? You're the only one who can distance yourself from sentiment in such a way, and that's the secret to your success. The brain without a heart, the calculating machine, that's what gives you your advantage. Only a high functioning sociopath can be a genius.”

Sherlock doesn't answer, he just watches Mofftiss as he goes on. The helicopter is starting to get loud.

“You're letting yourself get sidetracked. Look at you, you almost killed yourself because of sentiment. What happened to the detective stories? Who you really are doesn't matter. It's all about the legend, the stories, the adventures. That's what we want to read about, that's the Sherlock Holmes the public expects. At least you're still wearing the hat.”

Sherlock slowly reaches up and takes the hat off. He looks at it and quietly says: “It wasn't my hat.”

“Oh come on”, Mofftiss protests. “Be sensible now, you were always the grown up!”

Molly exchanges a look with John. Wow, this man clearly doesn't have a coherent understanding of Sherlock.

The helicopter is almost drowning out all other sounds now. It must soon be directly above them. Yes, Molly can see it now through the open window frame; a black helicopter, flying low, with big red letters on the side: _BBC_.

“Ugh”, Sherlock sighs to himself, “not them again.”

A gap opens at the bottom of the helicopter, and a rope falls out of it. It dangles over the roof of the café for a few moments, before the end of it finds its way in through the open window.

“They should maybe use a more anonymous helicopter when trying to rescue a criminal”, Sherlock says, eyeing the rope. “This whole game is apparently set up by idiots. Dull.”

“I will make sure the public gets what it wants”, Mofftiss says in a threatening tone. “This is not over, Sherlock Holmes.”

“No”, Sherlock agrees, “you'll be sitting right where you are, will you not? Or did you have a plan for how to escape with a rope when you're tied to a chair?”

Mofftiss goes very pale as he realizes the big and obvious hole in his plan. Sherlock steps forward, hesitates for a moment when he realizes he's still holding the deerstalker, but then he puts it on Mofftiss' head and grabs the neckline of the night gown, now stained from the nosebleed. Sherlock pulls out a tiny device from the neckline, puts it to his mouth and calmly says:

“Good afternoon, BBC. Let me give you a friendly reminder of what happened when you let John abuse me in a morgue. Better not to test the borders again, don't you think? Better to escape while you can and never show your repulsive faces to me ever again.”

He tosses the mike to the side. The rope is immediately pulled back up, and the helicopter roars furiously when it takes up speed and flies away. Sherlock scoffs and ruffles his hair with both hands, looking a bit more like himself now.

“What…” Mofftiss' voice is shaky. “What do you mean, happened when John…”

“Oh”, Sherlock says, “you haven't heard? Mycroft blew up the offices of BBC. Not my idea. Very messy business. He's a bit overprotective, when it comes down to it.”

Mofftiss laughs. “Just an explosion? Nothing worse?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Worse? The offices are completely destroyed.”

“Well they'll be a bit sooty I'm sure”, Mofftiss says confidently. “But we can just dust that away. Put up the furniture that's fallen over. Maybe replace the wallpaper if we need to. I'll drop by to give them a hand, I've forgotten my earphones there and need to pick them up anyway. It's just a boop. We're fine.”

John can't hold it in any more; he lets out a high-pitched laughter even as he presses his lips tightly together.

“I'm sorry to burst this bubble for you”, Sherlock says, and he seems unsure whether he should laugh at the outrageous stupidity in front of him or if this man is trying to mock him somehow. “But fire usually destroys earphones.”

That's enough for John to open his mouth and let the laughter out, and Molly joins him. Even the café owner, still in the back, chuckles at this. Mofftiss looks insecurely between them.

“You know”, he says, trying to sound confident, “this is exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about.”

“What?” Sherlock says, not able to hide his smile when he sees John laugh.

“Look at you both!” Mofftiss breaks out. “You giggle in the middle of important and serious business, you hold hands when you run after criminals, you look at each other as if you're trying to peel each others' clothes off, goddammit! You act like a couple of smitten teenagers, and frankly it's starting to get really difficult to explain these things away. It's ruining your reputation!”

“Oh I see”, Sherlock says, his voice ice cold now. “You mean such accusations would blacken my name.”

“Yes- No! Of course not! There's nothing wrong with, you know, _gay_ people, obviously, but _you're_ not like that! You know? You're Sherlock Holmes! You solve crimes with your bro! You should be more careful about the signals you send out, and if you're planning to bro-hug him again you really should close the curtains.”

“Okay, I'm done.” Sherlock sounds utterly disgusted. “There's a limit to how long I can endure speaking with a man who uses the word _bro_ twice within five seconds.”

Mofftiss opens his mouth to speak, but instead there's the sound of a woman moaning loudly. Molly looks around, but the café owner looks just as confused; it certainly wasn't her. John, however, has frozen to ice, and Mofftiss is looking triumphantly at Sherlock.

“Oh!” Mofftiss shouts. “You've had sex! It was Irene Adler, wasn't it? Oh, you're such a perfect fit for each other. I get it now, I was wrong about you. You do have needs, don't you, you're not just a calculating machine. You're a sexual volcano waiting to erupt, and nothing intrigues you more than women who can beat you and compete with your massive intellect.”

Mofftiss glances at John when he says all this, but John doesn't seem to notice.

“What is he talking about?” Molly whispers to John.

“I knew it”, John answers her through gritted teeth. “He did sleep with her. The posh boy loves the dominatrix, huh. She probably made him wear the hat as some kind of twisted kink.”

“John”, Sherlock exclaims loudly, “I'm _gay_!”

There's a moment of complete silence. Sherlock reaches his hand into his coat pocket, pulls out his phone and presses it with his thumb. He throws it to John, turning back to Mofftiss without even seeing John catch the phone. Molly reads the text over John's shoulder.

_You need to just tell John already. Ask him out to dinner._

Molly smiles as she watches John stare at the screen, completely still. Sherlock does not look back at them, he has lowered his head in that dangerous deductive way, boring holes in Mofftiss with his pale eyes, and he is speaking fast.

“Looks like your deductions about me wasn't so accurate after all. Let's see if I can make some better ones. You obviously work with BBC, and you seem important enough for them to try to rescue you, but not important enough to put any effort into making the rescue believable. The way they were prepared to come for you, and the way they left you behind with minimal persuasion, suggests they expected you to sooner or later get into a compromised situation such as this one; you have a position that is morally questionable, then. Given your previous outburst about how there's nothing wrong with being gay as long as it's not your idol, I'm going to assume you're hired at BBC as a _queerbaiter_.”

Mofftiss' face has become almost as pale as the night gown he is wearing, telling them Sherlock is right on spot. Sherlock's intense gaze seems to pin Mofftiss even harder to his chair and he continues without pausing:

“You live a perfect life in a nuclear family and you take pride in being a present parent. You believe you're a very good father, you want to be a role model for your children in being an honest figure. Your family loves and admires you but you respond with nothing but betrayal. See there, on the palm of your hand a girl has written you her number. Or is it a boy's number? Oh, what a groundbreaking discovery, you look more terrified by that assumption than by me implying you're cheating on your wife. And then there's your underwear. I can see them through that ridiculous gown of yours. They have the WWF panda printed on them, you've purchased them to show your support in saving animals. You think of yourself as a man with good values and you like to display it at least to your family, I suspect this would show even more clearly if you had been wearing more clothes of your own and not pretending to be my mad sister. However, the make-up you're wearing is produced by a company famous for an animal testing scandal which you probably don't even know about. You think supporting a cause means just saying it out loud, letting other people know you're on the good side without actually doing anything yourself. Oh and you're not lying about being a fan of mine. You brag around because you think you know me better than anyone else. That perfume you're wearing, produced by a small and exclusive company in my home town – that's quite an expensive purchase to make just to suck up to me. I'll have you know that I loved the smell of that perfume and it's wasted on your skin. The fact that you can afford it means BBC pays their queerbaiter quite generously; you are privileged in every sense of the word and it hasn't occurred to you to actually use that position for doing something good. Possibly you're BBC's puppet, not brave enough to act on your own. But most likely you're just a privileged white man who has forgotten other people aren't as lucky as you are, you just like the fame and power and want to play around for your own amusement without a single thought on how this may affect other less privileged people.”

There are tears in Mofftiss' eyes, but Sherlock barely even stops for a breath. Molly has never seen him this furious; even as his deductions are as cold and collected as ever, the way he uses his voice is almost frightening. He slowly steps closer to Mofftiss when he goes on.

“You want to be as clever as me, setting up details for me to notice, and the fact that you actually believe in your own cleverness would have me worry about your mental state if I cared, but I don't. You show up here with this incoherent nonsense, throwing in a secret sister that makes no sense and no one cares about, insulting me with sloppy details like disappearing glass and ropes as a rescue for someone who's chained, calling me a grown up I mean _come on_ , accusing me of being sexually interested in a woman – how blind are you? I'm gay, you monster, how dare you imply otherwise! You're trying to distract me, to derail me – well I'm done pleasing you ordinary people, making me wear a stupid hat to live up to your expectations of me.” Sherlock is standing right in front of Mofftiss' chair now, and he is lowering his head so that their faces are only inches apart. “ _You_ are the final problem”, he spits, “and you. Repel. Me.”

Sherlock stays with his face close to Mofftiss, until Mofftiss drops his eyes. Then Sherlock draws back and turns around.

“John.”

John immediately straightens himself, letting his arms fall from his chest to his sides, tense, ready. “What do you need?”

“You.” Sherlock's face is beaming and he looks at John so intensely Molly thinks John must feel the gaze on his skin. “It's always you, John Watson.”

John barely has time to make a move forward before Sherlock has thrown himself at John, grabbing the sides of his neck and kissing him. John presses himself against Sherlock and returns the kiss so eagerly that Sherlock's stubble must be hurting his face. Mofftiss stares at them with eyes as big as his open mouth. They finish the kiss with great emphasis, let go of each other and John turns to the crushed man in the chair.

“Fuck off, Mofftiss”, he says.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side. “Yes, I suppose that's an easier way to express it. John, take my hand.”

John does so without hesitation. “Let's make people talk”, he says.

They grin hysterically at each other, and then they are off. They bang the kitchen door open, run through the café, out on the street, and they run until Molly cannot see them any more. Hand in hand, coat flying behind them. The deerstalker is forgotten on the head of the queerbaiter.

“Poor Molly”, she hears behind her. “That must have been very painful for you. I know how much you love him.”

She turns her head and meets Mofftiss' eyes with a straight gaze. “Do you think I'd love a gay man for years and years without him ever returning my feelings? That's not how it works. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go ask a landscape architect if she'd like to have coffee with me.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Solution of the Final Problem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14861136) by [thinkhappythoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkhappythoughts/pseuds/thinkhappythoughts)




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